


Invisible Lines

by Skarabrae_stone



Series: Wakandan Sunsets [2]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Idiots in Love, M/M, Post-Black Panther (2018), Wakanda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-13 01:26:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15353181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skarabrae_stone/pseuds/Skarabrae_stone
Summary: All he wants to do is drape himself over Bucky’s back, hook his chin over his shoulder and press his cheek to Bucky’s. He forces himself to stand still. “Nothing’s wrong. Just… can’t believe we’re here, is all.”Together, he means, but doesn’t say it. There are boundaries between them, invisible lines drawn in their many years apart. He doesn’t know the right things to say to Bucky now, after everything the past seventy years has thrown at them; it feels safer to say nothing at all.Set directly after "Wakandan Sunsets".





	Invisible Lines

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to resolve some of the tension in "Wakandan Sunsets", and maybe get a peek at Bucky's new life.   
> As always, comments are much appreciated!

Bucky’s house is simple, just one main room plus a bathroom. Steve looks askance at the glass-less windows and the curtain serving for a door.

“Aren’t you worried about animals getting in?”

“Nah. All the entrances have forcefields, nothing can get in.” Bucky presses a button or something, and a table folds out from the wall. “They’d keep humans out, too, but the kids want to come in here all the damn time, so I kept the settings pretty minimal.”

“The kids, huh?” says Steve, amused. Bucky’s always been a soft touch for children.

Bucky is unruffled. “Yup. They’ve decided I’m their new favorite toy.”

“Well, as long as it doesn’t bother you.”

“God, no.” Bucky takes a breath, turning to look at him with heartbreaking sincerity. “They _like_ me, Steve. They don’t—they’re not afraid. I… I’d forgotten. What that’s like.”

Steve can almost hear the crack of his heart breaking, and can’t resist putting a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “I’m glad, Buck,” he says quietly. “You deserve something good.”

Bucky gives an uneven shrug, mouth tilting in the cynical smile that Steve remembers from the war; he’d hated it then, and he doesn’t like it any better now. “Jury’s still out on that one, I think.”

He wants to argue, but before he can marshal the words, Bucky frowns and says, “Jesus, Steve, you’re still in your uniform. You should take a shower.”

“I didn’t bring anything to change into,” Steve admits. Now that he thinks about it, that was a stupid oversight. Then again, he hadn’t really been sure that Bucky would want him to stay. Not after everything, all the trouble Steve’s caused him.

“I’ve got stuff.” Bucky waves a hand toward the bathroom. “Go on. There’s towels in there. I’ll get you clothes.”

Steve can’t help the soft, stupid smile at even this minor show of hospitality. “Thanks, Buck.”

Bucky shakes his head, waves toward the bathroom. “Go on.”

He showers and changes into the clothes Bucky leaves for him, a soft cotton tunic and loose pants, and goes out to the main room.

There’s a pot of something boiling on the stove, and Bucky is cutting vegetables with a slicing tool that can be wielded one-handed. For a moment, Steve just stands there, drinking in every detail of him: the way his dark hair brushes his shoulders, the flex of his arm, the curve of his cheek. It still feels so impossible, that he’s really here, really real; Steve keeps thinking that he’ll wake up and find that this was a dream, and Bucky’s body is still lying somewhere in the frozen Alps.

“Something wrong?” Bucky asks, without turning.

He feels himself flush. All he wants to do is drape himself over Bucky’s back, hook his chin over his shoulder and press his cheek to Bucky’s. He forces himself to stand still. “Nothing’s wrong. Just… can’t believe we’re here, is all.”

_Together,_ he means, but doesn’t say it. There are boundaries between them, invisible lines drawn in their many years apart. He doesn’t know the right things to say to Bucky now, after everything the past seventy years has thrown at them; it feels safer to say nothing at all.

Bucky lowers his head, so that his hair swings forward and obscures his face. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I know you didn’t want me to go back into cryo.”

**_God_** _, I’m an idiot_ , he thinks. “Bucky, no, hey.” He crosses the room to stand in front of him, so Bucky can see his face. “Bucky, it’s not… I’m not— _angry_ , or… you don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

“I think I kinda do.”

And Steve, he needs to make this right, needs to make sure this is one thing Bucky can’t flagellate himself for. “Bucky, I was selfish, okay? I’d only—I’d only just got you back, and I couldn’t stand the thought of—” _losing you again_. “I wanted you around, because I always want you around, and I wasn’t thinking. But it was—it was your choice, and I had no right to ask any different of you. I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t say anything, so Steve adds, “You were trying to keep everyone safe, Buck. Looking out for others, just like you always do. And I—I think you did the right thing. I’m not gonna say it wasn’t hard—it was, for both of us. I can’t—God, I can’t even imagine what it’s been like for you. But I think you did the right thing.”

There’s another long moment of silence, and then Bucky sighs, and turns his head enough to offer Steve a soft little smile that fails to erase the sadness in his eyes. “If you say so.”

“Damn straight,” says Steve, trying for a little humor, and is rewarded when Bucky’s smile broadens. “Anything I can help with?”

“You could cut up that squash,” says Bucky, nodding at it. “It’s a little unwieldy with just the one arm.”

Steve carries the squash in question to the other side of the table, and begins peeling it. “Shuri said they were working on a new arm for you.”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t say anything else, just carries his cutting board over to the wok on the stovetop and dumping the contents in.

Despite all the evidence to the contrary, Steve can occasionally take a hint, so he shuts up and concentrates on the squash, cutting it into even little cubes with more precision than is probably necessary.

Bucky smiles again when he notices. “You’ve still got the artist’s eye, Rogers.”

Steve ducks his head. “Not much of an artist, anymore.”

“You stopped drawing?”

“I was a little busy,” he says defensively. “What with alien invasions and saving the world, and all.”

“You’ve got time now,” Bucky points out. “Or are you—are you going back out again?”

Steve thinks—hopes—he sounds unhappy at the idea. He stretches his legs out under the table with a sigh, feeling sore muscles stretch and pull. “Well, yeah, but not for—a little while. When the next crisis hits, I guess.”

Bucky nods, hair swinging in front of his face again, and hands Steve a jar of honey to open.

 

It’s fully dark by the time they finish dinner. Steve takes the compost out to the designated area, away from the houses, where it will be turned and watered and eventually used to fertilize the village’s gardens. The moon is just clearing the treetops, gleaming white and far larger than Steve is used to. He’d expected it to be quiet, but it’s not: insects chirp and buzz in the trees, and the howls and squeaks and growls of various animals echo from the depths of the jungle, just loud enough to be heard by his enhanced ears. Bats flit overhead, and he cranes his head to watch them swoop and dive, feeding on whatever insects dwell here.

_I could get used to this,_ he thinks. The thought surprises him—not just that a city boy like him could grow to love the trees and savannah of this African nation, but that he could contemplate settling somewhere. It’s still a long way from a family and a white picket fence, but the idea of having a home somewhere, anywhere—it’s frightening, in a way. Getting attached to something, he’s learned, just leads to more pain when it’s inevitably torn away again.

_Don’t dwell on it_ , he tells himself sternly. _Wishing won’t change anything._

When he returns to the house, he finds Bucky sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed only in a pair of loose sleep-pants. There’s something incredibly beautiful about him like this, the low light softening his face and gleaming on his well-defined muscles, his long dark hair and the slight smile playing around his lips. Steve is walking toward him before he’s even aware of moving, pulled as if by a magnet; he comes to himself just in time, stopping just out of reach. He stuffs his hands in his pockets in an effort to control himself, his want, his _need_ to touch.

“Bucky,” he starts, and can’t think of anything else to say. He just stands there, staring, enchanted and awkward.

Bucky’s eyes are dark, unreadable in the uncertain light. “I’m fucked up, Steve,” he says, for the second time that evening. “Are you sure you’re okay with that?”

“Of course I am, Bucky, you’ve got to know—of course.” Steve clenches his fists in his pockets. This is important. It’s important to do this right. “I know it’s not the same,” he says quietly, “but I’m not—I haven’t been. In the best place. For awhile. I guess…” He takes a breath, blows it out. It’s incredibly hard to admit, even to Bucky—Bucky, for whom he’d do anything, anything at all. Who has always known him better than anyone else in the world. “I guess I’m a little fucked-up, too.”

“Okay, then.”

“O—Okay?”

Bucky’s mouth curves into something more like a smile, making him look years younger—as young as he actually is, when you take away the years spent in cryo. “Okay,” he repeats, and holds out his hand. “Come here, punk.”

Steve lets out a soft, wordless breath, and takes a step closer. Bucky’s head is tilted up toward him, hand still outstretched, and Steve falls to his knees, slotting in between Bucky’s legs.

“Bucky,” he says, and it feels like a prayer.

Bucky leans forward, until their faces are almost touching. “You sure you want this?” he breathes.

Steve makes a noise that is halfway to a sob. “Please.”

Then finally, finally, Bucky closes that last bit of distance between them, touching his mouth to Steve’s.

His lips are dry and a little chapped, and when he opens his mouth, he tastes of wintergreen— _toothpaste,_ Steve thinks hazily, _he must have brushed his teeth_ —and then he realizes that Bucky must have planned this, must have known how he looked, sitting shirtless on the bed—and the knowledge that Bucky is here, that Bucky remembers, that Bucky still _wants_ him, after everything, crashes over him, and he gasps into Bucky’s mouth, pressing closer, his hands gripping Bucky’s hips hard enough to bruise.

Bucky doesn’t seem to mind; he bites Steve’s lip and swipes his tongue across his teeth, making him gasp and shudder, and Steve doesn’t _deserve_ this, his callused palm cupping Steve’s cheek and his muscular thighs pressing against his ribs and his perfect mouth hot and needy on Steve’s; he doesn’t deserve Bucky’s love, his _charity_ , after all the trouble he’s caused him, all the suffering and fighting and anguish. He sinks a hand into Bucky’s hair, feeling the long, silky strands, so different from the last time they did this—before the ice, before he fell. Bucky’s mouth is wet and warm and beautiful, and Steve doesn’t ever want it to end—wants this moment to go on and on forever, even as he feels that this is something fleeting, stolen before the next disaster.

Their panting breaths are the only sound in the room; they have long ago learned to communicate their desires without sound, back in their thin-walled apartment in Brooklyn, and again inside the flimsy privacy of the canvas tents they used during the war. Apparently, it’s a habit neither of them have lost. There’s an edge of desperation to Steve’s movements, the knowledge that this will inevitably be torn away from him, that anything so wonderful, so perfect, cannot possibly last.

Bucky pulls away, and it takes every ounce of his self-control not to chase after him. “Steve, wait.”

Steve looks at him, the loop of _oh shit, you’ve gone too far, you’ve gone too fast, you’ve scared him off, he doesn’t want you anymore_ so loud in his head that it takes him a moment to hear what Bucky is actually saying.

“You’re crying.”

“What?”

Bucky brushes his thumb across the ridge of Steve’s cheekbone, his expression concerned and unbearably tender. “You’re crying.”

Steve echoes the movement, and is momentarily surprised when his fingers come away wet. “Oh.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he says quickly. “Nothing, I’m not—I’m sorry, it’s stupid—”

“Steve.”

He stops, bowing his head, and shuts his eyes. _Idiot_ , he thinks. _You just had to go and ruin it, didn’t you, you couldn’t hold onto your stupid emotions for ten fucking minutes—_

Cool fingers touch his chin, lifting his head. He forces himself to meet Bucky’s gaze, flushing with humiliation. But Bucky’s face holds none of the castigation Steve himself is feeling.

“What’s wrong?” he repeats quietly.

Such a simple phrase, but it hits Steve like a sledgehammer, smashing the walls he’s tried to build around himself for so many years. For so long, he’s tried to be brave, tried to be tough, tried to prove that he was more than just a skinny little kid or a meaningless figurehead or a patriotic relic of a bygone age. He’s wrapped himself in Captain America, the title just as much a shield as the vibranium one he threw away, burying all his loss and fear and loneliness deep down, where the cracks wouldn’t show.

Sam had come the closest to those buried feelings, but then they’d had to save the world, and then again and again and again, and Steve doesn’t know whether it’s stoicism or cowardice that kept him from confiding in him. He doesn’t know whether it’s cowardice now, to put this on Bucky—Bucky, who’s been through so much, who shouldn’t have to deal with Steve’s shit on top of everything else—or merely weakness.

In the end, it doesn’t matter; Steve has never had much defense against Bucky, and he’s too weary to hide any longer. Much as he hates himself for it, it’s an incredible relief just to lay his burdens at Bucky’s feet.

“It’s stupid,” he says again, a token protest.

Bucky runs his fingers through Steve’s hair, and it feels like a benediction. “Tell me.”

“I just—I’m afraid,” he confesses. “You—I’ve lost you so many times, and I just—I can’t lose you again, I couldn’t _stand_ it—and I—Christ, I’m sorry, I wanted to—I wanted this to be good, and now I’ve gone and ruined it—”

“Steve, buddy, _sweetheart_ ,” says Bucky, “You didn’t _ruin_ this, you can’t—you can’t ruin what we got, HYDRA tried for seventy fucking years and they still didn’t succeed.” His accent is becoming increasingly Brooklyn, and his fingers tighten in Steve’s hair. “You don’t gotta be ashamed, Stevie, you didn’t—you got every right to feel that way. You got every right.”

Steve hides his face in Bucky’s thigh. “I’m supposed to be stronger than this,” he mumbles.

Above him, Bucky’s voice is warm with sympathy. “Oh, baby, who told you you weren’t allowed to feel, huh?”

“Nobody _told_ me, they all just—assumed—and I didn’t want to look—”

“Weak,” Bucky finishes. “You stubborn son of a bitch, you never change, do you?”

“Don’t talk about my ma that way.”

“You’re right, your ma was a saint, I don’t know how she managed to raise such a goddamned little punk like you,” says Bucky fondly, and gives his hair a little tug. “Get up here, that floor’s gonna kill your knees.”

“My knees are fine,” Steve protests, but he complies anyway, letting Bucky steer him to a seat on the bed.

Bucky rests his hand on Steve’s shoulder, meeting his eyes squarely. “Listen,” he says. “I can’t promise you it’s gonna be alright. We’ve both seen too much to believe that. But we can—we can take what’s given, hold on tight—we can have this, this moment, right now. And if you need to cry, you go ahead and cry. Lord knows you’ve been through enough.”

His voice breaks, and Steve burrows into him, holding him tight, offering as well as receiving comfort.

“You can, too,” he says hoarsely. “Cry, I mean. I won’t—I don’t mind.”

“I know,” says Bucky, and for awhile neither of them say anything else, just cling to each other, as though if they just hold tight enough, they can keep the world from ripping them apart again.

Finally, Steve pulls away, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. “You’re incredible, you know that?” he says hoarsely. “Everything that’s happened, and you’re still… you’re still _you_.”

Bucky gropes for a handkerchief on the bedside table. “I’m not really,” he says. “Just—bits and pieces, trying to hold together.”

“Well, your bits and pieces are doing a damn good job, then.”

Bucky blows his nose, and gives a watery smile. “You always did see the best in me.”

“As opposed to you, who constantly overlooked my sterling qualities.”

“Shut up, punk.”

“Jerk.”

They grin at each other.

Steve says, “Can we try kissing again? I promise not to cry this time.”

“You better not. It’s hurting my fragile ego.”

Steve laughs, and leans forward to kiss him. Bucky responds enthusiastically, and soon they’re lying on the bed, bodies flush against each other as they explore each other with mouths and hands.

_This could be heaven_ , Steve thinks, and then Bucky nips the sensitive skin beneath his ear, and he ceases to think at all.

 

“You know I’ll follow you anywhere, Steve,” Bucky says the next morning, lying in bed with his head propped up on a small mountain of pillows.

Steve makes a small, wounded sound, remembering a badly-lit pub, and Bucky’s eyes all hollow despite his smirking mouth. “Bucky, you don’t have to—”

His hand comes down on Steve’s neck, a gentle pressure that always meant, _calm down, shut up for a minute, I got you._

He obeys, biting his lip to keep the words from spilling out.

“I’ll follow you anywhere,” Bucky repeats. “But I…” He squeezes his eyes shut, hunches his shoulders a little. “I’m so tired, Stevie. I’m so tired of fighting.”

His voice is hoarse, barely more than a whisper, and he looks… afraid. As though this is too much to ask, as though he expects Steve to force him to the front lines. Again.

_Just like all the other times_ , Steve thinks bitterly. _How could I have been so selfish?_ He reaches out, brushing the pad of his thumb over Bucky’s cheek, smoothing over the side of his neck, across his collarbone.

“You don’t have to fight,” he says quietly. “Your war’s over, Bucky. You can rest.”

“And what about you?” Bucky asks, opening his eyes. “You ever gonna quit? Leave saving the world to someone else, for a change?”

“Do you want me to?”

Silence.

“Bucky?”

“Yeah,” he says at last, with a shuddering breath. “Yeah, I guess I do. But I can’t—I won’t try to keep you either, Stevie. God knows it’s never worked before.”

Steve winces at that, at the truth of it. “I don’t know what to do,” he admits. “The truth is… I’m tired, too, Bucky. We all are. But I don’t know if we can quit.”

“You didn’t sign up for a life sentence, Stevie.”

He sighs, deeply. “I know, Buck. I know. I just… I been fighting so long, I don’t know what else I’d do. Seems like the only thing I’m good for, anymore.”

“Steve, you’re thirty years old. I think you’ve got time to figure it out.”

“Thirty-two.”

“Oh, never mind, you’re too old to change your ways. Forget I said anything.”

Steve snorts. “You’re such a smartass.”

“Takes one to know one.”

“So what are you going to do?” Steve asks curiously. “Have you thought about it?”

“Well, yeah,” says Bucky. “A bit.” He takes a deep breath, as though steeling himself for Steve’s reaction. “Shuri said… Shuri thinks I’ve got a, a talent, for mechanics. You know I—I used to like to tinker with stuff, back when… anyway. She thought, she said I could maybe help her out. Mostly just do what she says, probably, but… yeah.” He looks at Steve nervously. “What do you think?”

“Bucky, I… that’s _wonderful_ ,” says Steve warmly. “I’m so proud of you.”

Bucky’s blush is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. “Thanks.”

Steve wraps his arms around him again, breathes in the soft, spicy scent of him. They have possibilities, he thinks. They have choices. And here in Wakanda, miles and years from anything they’ve ever known, perhaps they even have a future.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
